Tautology
by Kanotari
Summary: Integra is captured by Iscariot during the Battle of London and taken to the Vatican. Alucard is forced to abandon the fight and rescue his master, leaving Seras and the remaining Hellsing forces to stop the advance of Millennium. AxI, SxP.
1. Violent War

**Tautology (tau-tol-o-gy) noun: needless repetition of an idea, statement or word; a statement that cannot be denied without inconsistency**

**A little line from Hellsing Abridged 3 and a conversation with my enlightening roommate Annavance92 inspired this story. Many thanks to her.**

**Please read and review, or at least PM. I like to chat, and I'm curious to see what people think of the concept. **

**-Kano**

**Disclaimer: Hellsing and all of its characters belong to Kouta Hirano, otherwise Pip would have had a longer life.**

* * *

We are clutching the dagger.

We are clutching the poison.

We are grasping thirty pieces of silver.

We are grasping a halter made of straw.

We are apostles, yet not apostles.

We are disciples, yet not disciples.

We are believers, yet not believers.

We are traitors, yet not traitors.

We are death, the minions of death.

We humbly bow down and ask for forgiveness from our Lord,

submitting ourselves in reverence of God.

We shall vanquish all his foes.

We are those whom swing out daggers on a moonless night;

We are the ones who lace your dinners with poison.

We are assassins, the ones who have embraced the ways of Judas Iscariot.

* * *

"The target is Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing. I repeat: the target is Sir Hellsing."

The priest watched the black car, chuckling darkly as he tossed the radio aside. He narrowed his eyes as his quarry approached, his lips tensing against his teeth in an eager smile. Her could see her now, the heathen. Her stern blue eyes nervously scanned the road from the driver's seat of her black government sedan. It was a needless precaution; the danger was behind her.

A sea of soldiers, both Iscariot and Millennium, pursued her vehicle down the winding London streets as she desperately tried to escape from the trap closing about her. With cries of 'feuern', the soldiers let fly a swarm of rockets. The car's tires screamed in protest as the Hellsing director admirably tried to dodge the exploding projectiles. Her car was less admirable than her valor, and it careened head-first into a wall.

The priest couldn't stop himself from chuckling. At last, it was time. He dropped down from his rooftop perch, straight onto the hood of the unfortunate car. The blonde woman behind the wheel noticeably paled, but to her credit, never stopped moving, never stopped trying to flee, clinging onto her worthless heathen life with every last ounce of effort. She was lucky that his orders involved keeping her alive.

He opened the door for her, as any true gentleman would. With poise and grace befitting her blood, she placed one black pump upon the blackened sidewalk, then the other. The director stood tall and confident before him, casually flicking her flaxen locks over her shoulder in an attempt to exude confidence.

"Father Anderson," she hissed through clenched teeth, polite even in her darkest hour.

"Sir Hellsing," he returned.

"If you would excuse me," the blonde ventured, turning on her heel to continue down the street and away from the advancing soldiers.

He placed a calloused hand on her retreating shoulder, firm and undeniable. "The wrath of God is revealed from heaven against the ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who suppress the truth in unrighteousness… Romans 1:18."

"Now is not the time for religious squabbles, Alexander," she said patiently, though her voice cracked. Perhaps it was the bombs falling on her beloved city, but the stress was clear in her words. She turned back to man who was rooting her to the spot. "You have an enemy far worse than me today. I will happily go with you once Millennium is defeated." Then, in a whisper, "Just let me save my home."

"The decision is out of my hands. His Holiness wishes to have a word."

Her throat tensed and she swallowed nervously. "You can't be serious. You can't mean…" The director's voice trailed off as she assessed the look in the priest's eyes. Alexander Anderson was not a humorous man; more likely than not, he believed jokes were an affront to God. "About what?"

"I was not informed."

Integra's hair abandoned its natural, controlled state, choosing instead to swirl angrily about her face in a gust of wind. The Hellsing director only had a moment to wonder before she heard - and felt - the methodical thump of rotor blades. Her cerulean eyes flew skyward, finding the source of the noise: a black chopper.

"Our ride is here," Anderson announced.

"Our ride?"

"You didn't think his Holiness would come _here_…" the priest sneered derisively.

"Of course not," she murmured. Her cheeks were flushed with pink.

"Please, get in."

"I … I … I can't!" Integra stammered. "I need to be here. It is my sworn duty to protect these people!"

"Sir Hellsing…" the priest protested.

"I can not abandon my city. The queen herself has ordered me -"

"Sir Hellsing if you resist I will be forced to -"

Her eyes narrowed as she interrupted the clergyman. "I don't care what you will be forced to do. I'm not leaving this island and there's not a damn… thing… you can… do." Again, her voice faded away as she realized exactly how foolish her last sentence was. She was talking to a priest with inhuman - nay holy - abilities, and her one defense, an ancient vampire of questionable morality, was marooned in the middle of the ocean. The priest simply cracked his knuckles.

The Hellsing director boarded the helicopter, gritting her teeth in frustion.

* * *

"Archbishop!" an aide cried. "Archbishop Maxwell!"

"I'm trying to send those Protestant bastards to the deepest depths of Hell," the clergyman spat. "What could you possibly have to say that is more important?"

The aide trembled nervously, extending a manilla envelope toward the newly-appointed section chief. "Here sir. These were taken only moments ago by our satellites."

Maxwell snatched the envelope from the quivering young man. It contained several dozen high-quality photographs, which he leafed through impatiently. "These are pictures of that British ship we sent Lieutenant van Winkle to, the Adler. So?"

"It… it's moving sir. Toward London, slowly but surely. Even after a plane crashed right into it."

"Of course it is, you ignorant pig-sow." He rolled his eyes, pointing to one of the pictures. "Look right here. He's laughing as he stands in the middle of a swastika of blood, completely unharmed. It's the No-life King, exactly as planned."

"As planned, sir? That means… God," he prayed, crossing his chest with the sign of the cross, "Lieutenant van Winkle was sent there to die. She was sacrificed!"

"A necessary evil, I am afraid. Her sacrifice has trapped Alucard on the Adler."

"The Adler is moving, sir! Toward the battle!"

"Alucard is coming to England, yes, but rest assured. It won't be a long visit." The Archbishop placed his hand on the aide's shoulder. It was somewhere between a threat and a comforting gesture. Then he continued on in a deadly whisper. "You see, boy, I have news of my own. Father Anderson has informed me that Iscariot has captured the Hellsing bitch, the vampire's precious master. They're taking her to the Vatican."

"Our enemy in the Vatican, your grace?"

"Oh my naive boy," Maxwell tutted as he rolled his eyes yet again. "Answer me this: can any enemy take the Vatican?"

"Of course not, your grace."

"Can a vampire stand up to the might of God our Father?"

"Of course not, sir."

"Then think of Miss Hellsing as the bait in a trap. We lure the vampire to the seat of our power," he hissed, his fist closing about the useless reconnaissance photographs, "and then we crush him like an ant."

* * *

Seras sighed as she tossed the last chair to Captain Bernadotte. Thanks to the sacrifices of several brave Geese, they had been able to retreat to the conference room of the Hellsing Manor, where they had just finished barricading themselves in. Seras wished she could have saved them. Her master would have been able to.

"You know, mignonette," the Frenchman commented, "they say that a frown spoils a pretty face."

"Sorry," the draculina murmured back, slumping against the wall, Harkonnen resting by her side.

"They also say that a smile magnifies beauty," he added with a wink. "What do you say? Smile for me?"

"It's hard to smile when brave men just gave their lives for you."

Pip paused for a moment to take a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke billow from his mouth and nose. "We dishonor their memories by not living our lives to the fullest. Which reminds me…" He turned to the remaining Wild Geese.

"You lot!" he called. "Anyone got a drink for their dear old captain?"

Though most were still shaken from Zorin's illusions, a few answered back with calls of "Va te faire foutre!" and "Get your own bottle!"

"Stingy bastards," Bernadotte muttered under his breath. Seras had to giggle at the valiant commander acting like a spurned child.

"That's better, my mignonette," he chuckled softly, his words reaching her ears only. Then, in his loud commanding voice, "Share the whiskey around, lads. We have some friends who deserve a proper send off."

There was some minor grumbling, but every last man (and vampire) in the room knew that they were alive because their comrades had died. Only when every last person had a flask, cap, or cup and a mouthful of the caramel-colored liquid.

"Men." His eyes flicked to the blonde vampire beside him. "And Seras Victoria," he amended. "We remember Pierre-louis, Henri, Arnaud, Alphonse, Benoît, Christophe-Daniel, Émile-Bruno, Laurent, Luc-Philippe, and Serge. They fought to the death that we might survive. We shall not let that sacrifice be in vain. We shall fight tooth and nail like the fucking mercenary dogs we are, and we shall live to see the sun rise again. A votre sante!"

The Geese downed their liquor with murmurs of 'a votre sante.'

"A votre sante," Seras whispered, downing hers as well. She made a face as the whiskey burned its way down the back of her throat, which Captain Bernadotte found most amusing.

"Can't hold your liquor, mignonette?" he teased.

"Would you stop calling me that? My name is Seras. Ser-as!"

"I know, mignonette," he smirked. "I just prefer my name for you. Besides, it's a compliment. You should be flattered!"

"What does it mean then?" she demanded to know. She pursed her lips as her arms crossed over her chest.

"I'll tell you later," he mumbled, tugging at his collar.

"I knew it!" she gasped. "It's something raunchy, isn't it. You're mean, Captain."

"I'm not mean! It's a compliment!" he protested.

"Compliments can still be raunchy." She turned to one of the nearby Geese. "Jean-Pierre! Tell me what it means."

"Don't you fucking dare," Bernadotte ordered.

Jean-Pierre shot her a toothy grin. "Sorry, mademoiselle. Captain's orders."

"You… you… you both suck!" she whined, stomping the ground with her boot. It only served to make the mercenaries laugh. Her childlike behavior in the middle of a bloody battleground helped alleviate some of the tension. Seras was glad to help, at least a little. Looking at all the injured and remembering the dead made a pool of guilt well up in her stomach.

Pip came and stood next to her. He was so close that she could smell the scents of smoke and gunpowder mixing with his natural musk. "Eh mignonette," he said softly, "I thought I warned you about frowning."

"I could have done something, Pip. I could have saved them if I was a real vampire."

"You're plenty fucking intimidating, cheri," he laughed.

"My master could have saved them."

"Yes but your master wouldn't have saved them if he had his way. In all honesty, he scares the fuck out of me. I'd much rather have you by my side. You would do anything you thought might help."

The guilt surged once again, clawing at her insides. Blood. She hated the taste, yet thirsted for more. Every time she drank the red liquid, she noticed it: the undeniable surge in power. But here she was abstaining. It had been a while since she had accepted a drop of Sir Hellsing's blood.

Seras bit her lip, blushing. She could ask the Captain for some of his blood, she supposed. He was no virgin, but blood was blood.

Then of course there was the whole intimacy issue… One sip of blood and they would be able to communicate telepathically. He would be in her mind and she in his, at least if her powers worked like her master's. She trusted him undoubtedly, but this was Pip… The blonde felt blood rush to her face once again, something which didn't escape the mercenary's attention.

"You look like a girl after her first time," he laughed, the other Wild Geese joining in.

She shot the captain a venomous glance. Apparently he was unaware of the qualifications of becoming a vampire.

Seras opened her mouth to tell the loudmouthed Frenchman exactly where he could shove his comments, but she never got the chance. Her ears detected a familiar crack. Through the gap in the barricade, she saw a flash of silver slicing through the air. Her body moved instinctually with vampiric speed.

Pip was pleased with the ensuing result for two reasons. Firstly, there was a bullet embedded in the wall just behind where he was standing only moments ago. Secondly, the draculina's life-saving tackle had landed her astride his hips in a very enticing position. Her cheeks flared even redder than before as his hands found their way to her hips. One of the Geese wolf-whistled loudly as a few of the others made lewd jokes.

"This would be more effective if you removed your clothes, mignonette," he teased, joining in.

There was another BANG! and one of the sentries at the barricade collapsed, a bloody hole in his forehead and the back of his skull missing.

Harkonnen found its way into its master's hands. Seras cocked the gun, alert for any more bullets. She bared her fangs and let loose a feral growl; whoever was shooting at her allies would be sorry when she got her hands on them.

"As arousing as this is, could you let me up?" Pip requested.

"I'm going to punch you for that comment when this is all over," she swore as she swung one slender leg over his torso, "so you better damn well stay alive."

"It's a promise," he whispered solemnly as they crawled in separate directions, rolling toward the relative safety of the barricade. She snaked the barrel of her rifle over the top of the barrier. Rather than firing blindly, the draculina carefully poked her head over the overturned conference table. Another shot whipped past her, close enough to part her golden locks.

The captain gently pushed her to the side. He clenched a pin beneath his teeth and a grenade in his hand. In one swift motion, the brown-haired mercenary stood and lobbed it with all his resulting explosion rocked the walls and rained a shower of dust upon the unfortunate Wild Geese. Seras took advantage of the confusion to fire a barrage of rounds down the hallway, the other mercenaries following her lead. They were rewarded with an agonizing scream. One down.

The dead Nazi was replaced by a whole platoon of reinforcements who unleashed a hail of bullets upon the unfortunate Hellsing survivors as they crouched down behind the barricade. Unfortunately, said barricade was only made of wood, and wood can only take so much damage. Splinters filled the air as misguided shots rammed into the chairs and table that barred the way into the room. A few bullets soared harmlessly over the survivors' heads, becoming deadly missiles when they ricocheted off the walls. It seemed that no matter how the enemy did, it spelled magically spelled injury for the remaining Hellsing forces. It was as though some sort of magical force was aiding their enemy.

Though only one man had been directly shot so far, the Wild Geese had sustained considerable injuries. When the gunfire died down, they surveyed the damage. Two more were dead. The Geese tossed the bodies aside hurriedly as they prepared for the next wave; there would be time to mourn later. Everyone suffered minor flesh wounds, though a few were seriously injured.

"Geese!" Pip barked, calling his men to attention. "They have to reload sometime. We shall make them regret that. Give 'em hell, vous le chiens!" With that, he let out a guttural yell, a battle cry that would make even the most stalwart soldier's knees buckle. The other Wild Geese joined the din as they fired on the Nazi forces. Seras too took up arms, her custom anti-tank rifle sending oversized bullets careening down the hallway. Again, it was as though magic worked against them. The draculina swore that one of her slugs made a ninety-degree turn and rammed itself right into a wall.

In less than a minute, the Letzes Battalion was back in action, launching a coordinated assault on the Hellsing forces. The Wild Geese soon learned that the pause in their enemies' fire had been for more than simple reloading. Four Nazis with heavy shield stood shoulder to shoulder across the hallway, the rest of their allies falling in behind them. In the back stood the illusionist herself, Zorin Blitz. The artificial vampire smirked as she casually rested her scythe on her shoulder.

Seras and Captain Bernadotte resumed their places next to their allies at the barricade, rifle and revolver firing in sync at the advancing enemy. The revolver slugs rebounded harmlessly off the thick shields, but Harkonnen's specialized bullets punched right through. The crisis was averted, at least temporarily. The Nazis, though surprised, recovered quickly, sending a second row of shielded soldiers to the forefront.

It was no big deal, or so they thought. Seras took out one set of shields; she could take out another. Harkonnen clicked on empty chambers as its twin magazines ran out. The vampiress swore loudly. Of all the times to need to reload! Her hands searched the floor as she kept her eyes on the advancing wall of shields. They felt nothing but the hardwood floor. Peeling her attention from the immediate danger, she looked down.

"Merde!" she cussed, stealing a word from the Frenchman's dictionary. The only things near her were spent shells. Despite all their preparations, her custom ammunition was across the room.

With nothing short of vampiric speed, a tattooed figure charged straight for the barrier. Apparently, Zorin had grown impatient.

"Take her down, boys!" she heard the captain shouting over the roar of gunfire. The stream of bullets focused on short-haired woman running for them at full tilt, but she shrugged them off like harmless gnats.

With a massive leap, she soared over the barricade with ease, landing gracefully on one knee, her right palm pressed against the hardwood floor. Dark words radiated from her hand, spreading across the floorboards like a massive shadowy web. The defending forces spun around to fire at the enemy in their midst, battle cries turning to shrieks of pain as the ricochets and misses thudded into their allies and the well-aimed shots rebounded back at their shooters.

Jean-Pierre had curled himself into a ball like a terrified hedgehog. "I hate spiders," he sobbed, over and over again. Yet even with her keen vision, Seras saw no spiders.

One man, the oldest of the surviving mercenaries, was doubled over. "My arm!" he wailed. "My arm!"

The grizzled veteran stared miserably at his right arm, which was bleeding profusely from numerous lacerations. A chunk of wood nearly six inches long had pierced his forearm and emerged on the other side. His hand had been smashed, most likely earlier in the conflict. His fingers stuck out at odd angles. When, or if, he healed, the hand would most certainly be useless.

"My arm is gone!" he moaned. Seras thought it was a bit of an overstatement, but this was no time to argue.

With a careless flick of her wrist, the tattooed vampire flung her scythe through the sobbing man's neck. It cut clean through, embedding itself in the wall on the far side of its target, quivering.

A wall of fire roared up and the walls shook as a charge detonated on the far side of the barrier. Wood splintered high into the air, sending the oversized conference table soaring across the room and into the far wall. The mercenaries too were knocked back as the chairs and cabinets that comprised the rest of their defenses were torn down by the rush of enemies surging up to protect their commander. Agonizing shrieks filled the air as the Nazi vampires tore into the mercenaries, ripping them limb from limb and draining the corpses of blood.

Seras alone stayed rooted in place as the tattooed woman and her allies advanced until they were face to face. From the corner of her eyes, the blonde vampire could see her fallen allies, ravaged by the last onslaught.

Her blue eyes continued to roam the room, rolling over each of her allies, until at last they locked on the person she had been unwittingly searching for: Pip. Her heart stopped and her breath caught in her throat.

The mercenary captain was sprawled across the floor, an arm sticking out at an unnatural angle, a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth. The crimson liquid bubbled from multiple wounds to his chest and head as well. Even in death, he grasped his revolver tightly, finger on the trigger. Seras collapsed to her knees as she watched his patch-less eye cloud, then roll backwards into his skull.

"Not you too," she whispered.

Seras had always considered herself a strong woman. Her father had been shot in front of her when she was only a child. She watched as her mother was brutally murdered and then sodomized by her very killers. Seras had been stabbed and shot, and beat to hell at her orphanage, resorting to violence for survival. Even as a police girl, she saw her squad ripped to shreds by the vampire priest in Cheddar. Then her master came and saved her, giving her a second chance at life. He too was gone, stranded on a ghost ship in the middle of the ocean, dead for all she knew. Integra and Walter were somewhere in the battleground that was her hometown; she would likely never see them again. The corpses of the Wild Geese lay around her, increasing by the minute as the Nazi assault continued. Not once did she get a chance to say good bye, and it looked like that trend was continuing.

"Not you too," she choked, her vision swimming red with tears of blood, as red as Pip's lifeblood dripping onto the wooden floor.

"Seras Victoria," the Nazi woman said scathingly, intruding on her enemy's silent misery. "I expected more."

The blonde draculina glared at her assailant, but said nothing.

"First Lieutenant Zorin," a uniformed vampire called. "What would you like us to do with the survivors?"

"Kill the little gnats," she commanded. "They're unnecessary. We can have plenty of fun with this blonde little tart."

Seras let a feral growl escape from between her fangs, dropping into a crouch. Her eyes, once deep cerulean pools, were as red as the blood streaming down her cheeks. She bared her fangs and pounced.

* * *

The dense fog, thick as pea soup, yellowed as the ghostly ship drew nearer to the London harbor. It roiled across the surface of the water, engulfing the vessel like a hungry demon.

The true demon, nay devil, sat in on the deck in the middle of a faded swastika of blood. He had regressed to his original appearance, the face he wore as Vlad the Impaler. The blood-drinker stroked his beard as he processed the information his vampiric senses gave him.

London was embroiled in battle: he could taste the metallic tang of blood and the sharp, peppery taste of gunpowder. The artificial vampires of Millennium were in the city, and he could smell their revolting stench from here. The Catholic dogs were in attendance as well; their hypocrisy stank even more than the pale imitations. The clash of steel and dull boom of explosions rang across the water. Apparently Millennium and the church despised each other as much as he despised them.

Despite his keen senses, there was one person he could not find. He couldn't sense his master's mind, and when he tried to contact her telepathically, he was met with silence. Their mental link was private; she had no reason to ignore him. Alucard could only conclude that she was in danger: unconscious, drugged, or worse. With the ocean dampening his powers, he had no way to know where she was, why she wasn't answering, or even if she was okay until he made it onto solid ground again, and that terrified him.

His powers strengthened as the waters grew shallower, but he seethed and fretted when he still couldn't sense his master. Alucard began to wish that he could communicate with Walter like he could with Seras and Integra. If that wrinkly old coot let something happen to his master, then the vampire swore he would rip his out the aging butler's intestines and wear them as a scarf. The lack of telepathy was to the elderly human's disadvantage, really, for he would have to explain the Hellsing director's condition to the No-Life King within scarf-making distance.

Alucard settled for contacting Seras, which did nothing to ease his nerves. In her mind, he saw red, an endless red haze. Her conscious thoughts were absent, locked away by swirling cryptic words. They were in constant motion, changing and morphing like desert sands in a storm. The tiny black letters were... mesmerizing...

_Es wird gesagt, dass, wenn sie ihre feinde und dich selbst kennst, werden sie nicht in hundert schlachten gefährdete werden. Wenn sie nicht wissen, ihre feinde aber selbst wissen, gewinnen sie ein und verlieren ein. Wenn sie nicht wissen, deine feinde noch selbst, werden sie in jeder einzelnen schlacht gefährdete sein._

The dark words rushed through his mind, and the vampire could feel his thoughts starting to grow fuzzy. He brushed the cryptic text away with a determined thought, breaking his mental shackles. The No-Life King narrowed his crimson eyes and growled.

With a loud metallic thud, his ship rammed into the dock. Alucard sprang into action, rushing toward Seras's location with frightening speed. There was no time to waste; someone was playing with his apprentice's mind.

* * *

**If you like what you read, check out my other Hellsing fics: Forever Alone, on my Kanotari account; and Predator on Halloween and Bored Meeting on the Team Dragon Star account.**

**For those of you who are familiar with my writing, you're probably wondering where all the humor is. It's coming; don't worry. There was just a lot of exposition to trudge through first. **

Pip's guide to French:

Mignonette: feminine of mignonnet, _dainty, pretty_, from Old French, diminutive of mignon, _lover, dainty; _also a type of flower

Merde: shit

Va te faire foutre: fuck off

A votre sante: to your health

Vous le chiens: you dogs

***I just googled a lot of French insults. Correct me if I'm wrong, please!***


	2. Illusions of Trickery

**Wow... It has been nearly four months since I updated this. I am so sorry! Let me just say that this story has not gone as planned. It was going to be an AxI, then I was having too much fun writing SxP, and let me tell you... the plot from here on has changed at least five times. It was going to be funny, and then it turned deadly serious. At least everything is figured out now, and I finally have time to write. A perfect storm of convenience!**

**Thank you to Annavance92 and DarkVoid116 who pestered me to finish this chapter. Also, my sincerest thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. I truly appreciate your honest feedback.**

**Enjoy,**

**-Kano**

* * *

Chapter 2: Illusions of Trickery

The helicopter took off before Integra could so much as take a seat or even close the door. The two Iscariot soldiers flanking the Hellsing director each seized one of her arms and held her safely inside the cabin as they rose into the sky. On solid ground, she would have considered it an invasion of privacy, but here she was quite thankful for their secure grasp. The wind tugged at her hair and her coat, her cigar long since snuffed out. It grew colder as they rose in altitude, and despite her attempts to ignore the plummeting temperature, it became a challenge for the Hellsing director to prevent her teeth from chattering. Giving in, she motioned to one of the nearest Iscariots. He gave her a strange look, as though none of his previous prisoners had ever tried to communicate with him. The blonde woman couldn't help but smile; she wasn't like any of their previous prisoners.

"The door!" she hollered over the roar of the rotors and the rush of the air, pantomiming as best as she could with both of her elbows securely grasped. The soldier gave a tentative look toward Father Anderson, but he was of no help. The priest was chuckling to himself with an eerie grin plastered on his face. The soldier glanced back to Integra, and down at the ground speeding past them as they flew over the roads of London. At last, he shrugged and closed the door.

Integra's flaxen hair settled back into place, a sham of its former style. The sound of the helicopter, though not inaudible by any means, was cut in half, now a muffled roar. She glared at the two uniformed men holding her in place, then yanked her arms away from them. Free at last, she pushed her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose and straightened her jacket.

Walking with as much grace as her black pumps and the rocking chopper would allow, she headed toward the back of the cabin where there was a long bench. It was currently filled with Iscariot soldiers, both her escort and captors. The Hellsing director stood tall and crossed her arms over her chest, clearing her throat. She tapped her toe, her shoe clanging against the metallic floor. A few of the Iscariots gave her odd looks, but most tried to avoid eye contact.

When it became clear that the soldiers had no idea what she was waiting for, Integra spoke. "It is rude to make a lady stand," she explained impatiently.

"Aye, that it is," Father Anderson agreed, giving up his own seat for the Hellsing director, who graciously accepted it. She straightened her pants suit as she sat, thanking the priest politely.

"Some prisoner you are..." the Iscariot next to her muttered under his breath. It was a big mistake; Sir Hellsing heard every word.

"What is your name, soldier?" she asked.

"Piero Bianchi," he answered. "What's it to you?"

"Well Signore Bianchi," she said with a devilish smirk, "I am a poor prisoner because I am not a captive at all. I am an emissary."

"You are surrounded by Iscariot soldiers," the uniformed man scoffed.

"Who shall treat me with respect if they wish for me to remain an emissary," she finished.

Bianchi shifted in his seat so that he was facing the Hellsing director. He narrowed his eyes and venomously asked, "And why would we want that, Protestant?" Integra was a little surprised he managed to pronounce her religion without retching; from the looks of things, he came close.

"Because there is someone who would not take kindly to me be held hostage."

"I'm quaking in my boots," he replied dryly, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.

"Perhaps you have heard of Alucard."

"He's just a story, something to embody the wrath of our Lord," Bianchi said dismissively.

"A legend, aye, but one with truth," Anderson chimed in. "Thus says the Lord: Fear him who can destroy the body and soul in hell. Matthew 10:28."

Integra smirked when she noticed the solider beginning to sweat. "Alucard is real, alright, and he answers to but one person on this green Earth. Me."

The color drained from Bianchi's face, and Integra pressed her advantage, speaking loud enough for the whole battalion to hear. "You see, Signore, Alucard doesn't particularly like you. Any of you," she added, gesturing around the cabin. "If I get so much as a scratch, it might just send him over the edge."

The Hellsing director leaned in, her face only inches away from the now terrified Bianchi. "And do you, Signore, know what happens when Alucard loses his cool?"

He nodded slowly.

"The stories are no exaggeration," she whispered.

Sitting back in her seat, looking quite pleased with herself, Integra dug around in her pockets, finally locating what she was looking for: a fresh cigar. "Does anyone have a light?" she asked in a conversational tone. Six lighters flared to life.

* * *

A vampire with a scarlet swastika emblazoned on his chest suddenly found it hard to breathe. Seras' slender fingers had wrapped themselves around his throat before he even saw her move. They contracted in a heartbeat, and his severed head dropped to the floor with a dull thud.

The blonde looked at the blood on her fingers, and oddly enough, was very pleased with herself. Her eyes, once a vibrant blue, were as red as her fingertips. She craved more blood, more carnage. Luckily, there were no shortage of enemies to provide her with the precious crimson liquid. The desire to kill was simply irresistable.

Seras lunged at the nearest Nazi. Her shoulder hit him right in the gut, knocking him to the floor. A few quick slices of her sharpened nails, and he was limbless, his lifeblood draining away between the cracks in the floorboards. Still Seras remained unsatiated. A quavering reinforcement aimed a gun at her, but was not fast enough. The draculina broke his wrist with an aggressive swipe and the pistol dropped to the ground. The soldier lasted only a second longer than his weapon. More, Seras' instincts urged her. More! A well-placed kick shattered the ribcage of one man as her fangs closed around another's arm. Were they on her side, or the other? Frankly, she no longer cared.

Zorin Blitz stayed well out of melee range, glowering as her pet vampires were destroyed one by one like the dogs they were. She shook out her shoulders, limbering up like an athlete before the big game. Harnessing the same speed as her blonde foe, Zorin leapt into the fight. The flat blade of her scythe connected with Seras' temple, and down she went.

The former police girl dropped into a crouch, snarling at the new enemy entering the fray. Seras lunged at Zorin with blood streaming down her face and arms. The blonde's elongated canines were aimed right for her opponent's tattooed throat, but they never reached it. Zorin had seen enough.

The illusionist punched Seras squarely in the jaw with enough force to shatter bone, and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch. Wielding her scythe like a baseball bat, she proceeded to beat the draculina into submission, and any of her own foolish enough to interfere. When the first soldier was decapitated, others pressed back against the walls of the conference room, where it was safe.

Seras's refusal to drink blood was a handicap in this fight; she was no match for a full-blooded vampire. Sips of Integra's blood sustained her, but her powers could never manifest without draining to very soul of another. Zorin was not a saint. Far from it, in fact, playing host to the souls of countless devoured victims. Seras felt the strain. The Nazi lieutenant was faster than her at every turn and overpowered her in every clash of strength.

"Why do you fight?" Zorin demanded as she rebuffed the blonde vampire for what seemed like the tenth time. "You can never win, pathetic worm."

She smacked Seras upside the head with the hilt of her scythe, knocking the blonde woman to the floor. Her expression was one of disgust and contempt.

"No one will remember you," the illusionist continued. "Who will remember your little long-haired friend? The Frenchman?"

She dropped low and rammed her shoulder into the draculina's gut, sending the reeling woman to the floor. Seras tried to get up, tried to fight back, but Zorin would have none of it. Her black military-issue boot left a dirty footprint on the blonde's chest as she kicked her back down. Her scythe's blade caressed the struggling vampire's throat, drawing a faint red line, the sight of which made the illusionist grin.

"What does it matter, anyway? He was just a useless worm."

Worm? A WORM?! Seras clawed at the leg holding her in place, dying to rip its owner to shreds. The skin came off the bone the same way it would on a perfectly roasted chicken, but Zorin shrugged it off.

"I've had just about enough of you, girlie," the stronger vampire hissed. "I was going to kill all your pathetic friends and let you watch, but I've thought of something far more entertaining to do with you."

Zorin knelt on her prey's chest, and with a cruel smile, pressed the eye of her tattooed palm to the struggling blonde's forehead.

* * *

The blond girl's eyes fluttered open. She groaned in pain, and place a hand upon the wooden floor, but there was a problem: it wasn't wooden. Her fingers brushed cold cobblestones.

Seras sat up suddenly, clutching her head. Her brain felt fuzzy, like it had been wrapped in wool, but her thoughts were clear as day. Looking around, she saw rows of wooden benches all facing an altar, a cross suspended above, illuminated by the faint light streaming in through the stained-glass windows. She was in a church?!

But... how? she wondered. The last thing she remembered was... was... the attack. The Nazis had attacked the Hellsing Organization. She was with the Wild Geese. Some of them had stayed behind, fighting against the superior Nazi forces to buy the rest of them enough time to get to the conference room and barricade themselves in. Zorin and her allies had attacked them again there and...

The memories flooded back to her. The blood... the carnage... Pip. Pip was dead, and she wasn't able to save him.

It was as if the simple act of remembrance summoned his body to her; Seras noticed his swath of copper hair lying on the ground beside her. How had she not noticed it before? He looked just as she had last seen him, sprawled on the ground just the way he had fallen. She couldn't resist picking up his trademark red braid, always so neatly manicured, and laying it across his chest. It didn't seem right to leave it on the floor. She could almost see him shudder at the thought of his precious hair sliding in between the cobblestones. His chest was still warm, though some of the heat had faded; it was as though his body, too, remembered the life it once had.

"Oh Pip," she sighed. "I'm so sorry. How could I let this happen to you?"

The draculina almost jumped a foot in the air when she felt a hand - a warm hand - on her shoulder.

"You should be sorry," the newcomer added. "Here you are lollygagging, when Simon's out there all by himself searching for a murdering lunatic."

Seras turned around, and nearly passed out from the shock. "Eddie?" she gasped. There he was, just as she remembered him. He was dressed in his D-11 uniform, though it had been months since they'd served on the force together. It was crisp and neatly pressed; Eddie's appearance was impeccable as always. Her partner gave her a half-smile, worry hidden in his eyes.

"Of course it's me, kitten," he replied, a puzzled look on his face. "Now, come on! I don't want to be here when those things come back!"

"But how are you alive?" Seras gaped. This couldn't be right. She saw Eddie so long ago, so far away. He had turned into a ghoul before her very eyes after he had been bitten. One little bite was all... Oh dear...

Her head began to swim as the details pierced themselves together in her mind. Dead Pip, dead Eddie. The bite. The church. It looked familiar for a reason; she had been here before. This was Cheddar Village on the night her fellow officers had been murdered. The night she met Alucard... the night she died.

It made no sense. How had she, and unconscious vampire beaten within an inch of her life, managed to travel through space and time, with a corpse no less? Questions assaulted her mind. Why had she come here? Why was Pip's body here? Was she stuck here? Seras felt the gnawing fingers of panic begin to claw at her stomach.

"Kitten!" Eddie whispered, nerves creeping into his voice, causing it to shake. "Did you hear that?"

She hadn't, as a matter of fact; she had been too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice anything that wasn't slapping her in the face. Shaken from her reverie, she too began to hear it: a faint forlorn moan coming from right outside. Shivers went racing down her spine. It, like everything else tonight, was eerily familiar. She remembered this night well; its horror was permanently etched in her brain. And she remembered what was coming next.

"Don't!" Seras protested in vain, watching as Eddie snuck closer to the door. The police man almost dropped his gun in shock when he carefully slid the door open. "Simon!" he sighed in relief.

Simon didn't say anything back, simply groaning raspily as he lay on the ground, his ragged breath sliding over his shredded vocal cords. It was, noise they'd heard before, which Eddie noticed too.

"Trying to scare us, eh?" he laughed, clapping his fellow D-11 officer on the back. "We didn't buy it, right Kitten?"

"Get away from him, Eddie," Seras whispered, deadly serious. He eyed her cautiously, wondering what on Earth would prompt her to say such a thing.

Simon's skin was mottled and gray, with patches of yellow. It look unhealthy, unnatural. His jaw hung open, as though he had simply stopped mid-sentence. His familiar uniform was ripped and bloodied, torn by what appeared to be grasping fingers or maybe even teeth. Worst of all were his eyes: an unsettling shade of purple.

"Merde," Seras swore in remembrance of her fallen comrade. She had already let one good man die today, and she was damned if she was going to let another. Her hands flew to the pistol holstered on her belt. In one fluid motion, she drew the gun and fired with vampiric accuracy.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six shots thudded into Simon's ghoulish body. Only when the gun clicked on an empty chamber did Seras stop.

"What the hell, Kitten?!" Eddie screeched as he examined the blood-soaked grey matter plastered to the sidewalk. "Why are you shooting Simon?"

"He's not Simon anymore," she answered coolly. "Now back away from him, and bar the doors."

"No!" he spat. "I'm going to go save my partner. If you'd like to help, you can hold the door for me."

Seras closed the gap between them, reaching out for Eddie's hand, trying to think of something, anything to make him stay. But she had nothing. He angrily shoved her away and stormed out the door, leaving Seras to watch as history repeated itself.

"Come on, Simon," Eddie mused, extending his hand to his prone friend. "Let's get you inside and look at those wounds."

Simon had other plans. His fingers, stripped to the bone, reached greedily for Eddie's and another desperate moan escaped his throat. Instead of taking hold of the hand, Simon closed his fingers around Eddie's wrist in an iron grasp.

"Let go, man!" Eddie whined. "You're hurting me."

Simon's other hand slid from under his body and locked around Eddie's meaty elbow. Slowly, painfully, the ghoulish man dragged himself toward the D-11 officer's arm, a string of saliva hanging from his still-open jaw. The injured man lunged, moving with impossible speed, and sunk his teeth into the soft, warm flesh of Eddie's arm.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed, attempting to shove the dying man off of him. The creature that was once Simon responded by ripping off a hunk of Eddie's arm and chewing it hungrily. Eddie lashed out at him again. "Get the hell off!"

Seras' vision swam as tears filled her eyes. That was it; Eddie was done for. One bite was all it took. With a heavy heart, she steeled herself and closed the heavy, wooden church door, leaving Simon and Eddie outside. Eddie turned when he heard the dull thud of the closing door.

"Kitten! That's not funny!" he groaned, rushing over to the door. "First Simon, and now you. Why is everyone so cruel to me today?" He jiggled the brass handle, but Seras held it shut. Eddie was an admirable police officer, but his strength was no match for a vampire's. "Come on, Seras! Let me in. Those things are starting to come back!"

The 'things,' as Eddie called them, were ghouls, the remains of their fallen comrades sent into Cheddar. Eddie was right about one thing, though; they were starting to come back. The gunshots and screaming had attracted their attention. Seras knew as much. It had all happened before, and for the second time, she held the door closed and wept as Eddie's increasingly desperate screams turned to shrieks of pain and then hungry moans as the bite did its work.

Seras waited with bated breath for what she expected to come next: her kidnapping. So when the vampiric priest arrived with a smirk, she resigned herself to her fate and walked willingly into his arms.

"I won't even make you a vampire with free will," the priest laughed as he wrapped his cold hands around her neck and hoisted her off the ground. "There probably aren't any virgins your age these days anyway."

On most days, the sheer irony of the comment would have made her smile, but in light of Eddie, Simon, and Pip, it was more than she was capable of.

"First I'll rape you, and then I'll take my time draining you," he continued on.

Seras waited with baited breath. This was it. This was when it was supposed to happen. The priest would get what was coming to him when her master walked through the door. But the door sat motionless. Time seemed to stop as Seras waited faithfully for her master to come and save her, but he never did. It came as a complete surprise when the priest chuckled and said, "I'm going to enjoy this."

It was a new line. The pattern, the repetition... it was broken. Alucard hadn't come to save her, and no one was going to stop the priest. Her friends had died for nothing, and she would soon follow, raped and murdered while trapped in the past. It couldn't end like this, but how else could it end?

"Get away from me!" she wheezed through his iron grip, finally accepting that Alucard wasn't coming, finally deciding to stand up for herself.

"Oh ho!" her captor laughed. "The little doe decided to fight back." Without any further hesitation, she emptied her clip into the priest's stomach, which only made him smile.

"Silly girl," he said scathingly. "Guns could never kill a vampire."

"Believe me, I know," she rasped back, using her free hand to claw at the two clenched around her throat. Her nails dug into his skin, but the pressure didn't let up. Yes, Seras was a vampire, and yes, she stood a better chance than she had the last time these events had occurred, but the fact remained that the Cheddar priest was still far stronger than her. Seras was only a fledgling vampire; the only blood the flowed through her veins was her own. The priest, on the other hand, had consumed the better part of a village and her D-11 allies. Their souls mingled with his, giving him enough strength to keep her firmly in his grasp.

"You're a strong one, aren't you?" he hissed. "Perhaps I should revise my plan. I'm feeling a bit peckish... maybe I'll just eat you now." He ran his long tongue along her jaw and up her porcelain cheek. "You smell awfully delicious." A hot bead of saliva dripped onto Seras' neck, and she flinched away, trying to rip his clutching hands away from her, but it was to no avail. Everything seemed to grow dark and hazy as his fangs ripped into her, and she slumped to the floor.

* * *

Pressure.

The pressure on his chest was immense, so immense in fact that Pip was utterly shocked that his chest hadn't collapsed. He opened his eyes to see the heavy conference table bearing down on him, pinning him to the wall. It only took him a moment to remember the explosion and his brief flight through the air before the heavy table, or possibly the wall, had knocked him unconscious.

He wiggled toes, just to check that they were still intact. He'd already lost an eye; he'd rather not lose any more pieces of himself. Thankfully, they were all there and moving. He could not say the same for his right leg. Just wiggling his toes had sent it reeling in pain, begging to be put out of its misery.

"_Merde_," he groaned softly. Pip repeated the process, wiggling his fingers now. His arms seemed to be in better shape than his legs, and mercifully weren't pinned by the gigantic piece of mahogany. He retracted them slowly from their wooden prison, resting them comfortably by his side.

"Pip," a voice sobbed weakly. "I'm so sorry. How could I let this happen to you?"

_Mignonette_. He knew it was her, even though he couldn't see her.

"Shut up, blondie!" another spat, presumably Zorin, followed by the dull thwack of flesh on flesh.

If it were Zorin... then... "_Merde_!" he murmured again. The fight was still going on. Miss Victoria and his men were out there fighting without him. They would need his help; he had to get out of here. Gathering what little strength remained in his arms, he pushed them against the collapsed remains of the conference table and forced his way to freedom. It was a slow and painful process, especially for his injured leg, but he made it.

The sight that met his eyes when he peered around the edge of the battered table was equally as painful. His men were either dead or not long for this world, utterly annihilated by Zorin and her Nazi vampire kin, or worse still, turned into ghouls. Even Seras lay defeated at the illusionist's feet. Perhaps it was best to just play dead...

Pip, continuing to peer from behind the wreckage of the table, laid his limbs as random angles and tried his best to keep a blank expression on his face in imitation of a corpse. Upon closer examination, he noticed that Zorin had her palm pressed to Seras' forehead.

"How could I let you die, Pip?" Seras whimpered.

Try as he might, that comment broke his poker face. She was beating herself up for letting him die! It was both incredibly sweet and incredibly infuriating, and he was damned if he was going to let her guilt herself for something that hadn't happened. His injuries weren't even her fault, unless she had been making Nazi vampires and had simply neglected to tell him.

"Seras!" he called, dragging his body from behind the table. "I'm fine!"

He watched a spasm of confusion pass over the blonde's face. "I'm hearing things," she murmured.

"I'm alive, _mignonette_!" His broken leg left a trail of sticky blood on the hardwood floor as he pulled himself toward Seras. The pain was excruciating, but he didn't care. He couldn't let the poor girl suffer, especially not over someone like him. He wasn't worth it. Pip's vision flashed red as a pained cry escaped his lips. His leg...

A battered brown boot suddenly found itself embedded in the flesh of the captain's injured limb. The boot belonged to a man in a bloodstained olive-green uniform, with a red swastika emblazoned on his armband. "Ma'am?" the soldier called. "We have a live one!"

"Kill him," Zorin intoned, bored.

"_Feme la bouche, connase!_" Pip spat, reverting to his natural French. "_Tu peux sucer ma-_"

He wheezed in pain as the soldier gave him another swift kick in the open wound. The man didn't know what nonsense the Frenchman was spouting, but it was clear that it was supposed to be insulting.

"_Va te faire foutre!_" he hissed through clenched teeth. His vision went dark as he temporarily blacked out. The cursed Nazi had dropped to his knees and proceeded to batter the beaten mercenary. "_Ne fait... pas le con_!"

When he regained his sight, he found himself looking into a pair of cold green eyes. "You just don't know when to quit, do you worm?" Zorin spat.

Eye to eye with a deranged vampire illusionist, Pip did the only logical thing. He gingerly wiped a fleck of saliva from his cheek, smirking, and said, "Well I can't just sit by while you torture a beautiful lady."

Zorin chuckled darkly. "Boys, I think he has a crush on our playmate over there. What do you say we do him a favor and let him join in the fun?"

The few remaining Nazis joined in the laughter. The illusionist smiled widely and grabbed the end of the Frenchman's braid, jerking it violently. He winced as his head, then upper body, was hoisted into the air by the almond-colored strands.

"Look at that!" the illusionist sneered. "He even comes with a handle." She dragged him towards the draculina and dropped him lazily across her body, letting his face smash into the floor as his torso collided with the blonde's stomach. Zorin resumed her place on the ground by Seras's forehead. The lips on the vampiress's palm found their way back to the Hellsing operative's forehead, while its mate caressed Pip's chin. Zorin lifted the mercenary's face, forcing it to align with hers. She looked him in the eye, smirking triumphantly.

"Be sure to say hi for me," she whispered. The world faded to black as her palm brushed his forehead and unleashed the torrent of cryptic words.

* * *

**Pip's guide to French:**

Feme la bouche, connase!: Shut your mouth, cunt!

Tu peux sucer ma- : You can suck my-

Va te faire foutre!: Go fuck yourself!

Ne fait... pas le con!: Don't be an ass!

***I just googled a lot of French insults. Correct me if I'm wrong, please!***


	3. The Night She Died

**Well this was the last chapter I expected to be working on... I'm okay with that. My apologies for the lack of Alucard. He'll get a lot of attention next chapter. Thanks as always to DarkVoid116 and AnnaVance92 for their help.**

**-Kano**

* * *

The Night She Died

The heavy door of the AgustaWestland AW109 helicopter slid open and the bright Italian sun poured in. Integra's hand instinctively flew to her brow, shielding her eyes. Her flaxen hair swirled about her face, but she could still make out a small party waiting for them at the foot of the stairs.

The cheery smile on Sir Integra's face was only skin deep as she strode off the chopper. Despite the playful breeze and sunny skies, she couldn't help but worry about her home. The country she pledged to protect was embroiled in battle, and here she was, powerless to save it. Her left hand subconsciously patted the hilt of her sword, as if to make sure it was still there. The Hellsing director forced the corners of her mouth upward into a plastic smile and headed down the stairs.

"Grazie, Signore Bianchi," she said in an amused tone as she rested her feminine fingers on his trembling ones. The dark-haired Iscariot had rushed off the chopper ahead of her, and offered his hand as she stepped off the ramp onto the tarmac helipad. Alexander Anderson followed with his four remaining Iscariots in tow.

Unsurprisingly, the waiting people proved to be from the Vatican, an 'escort' for their 'honored guest,' or so they claimed. To Integra, it felt more like a team of guards shepherding an unwilling prisoner, a role she was not comfortable with. When Anderson placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and steered her toward their destination, she knew she was right. As they marched along, her heels clacking on the pavement, Integra began to worry. She assumed they would be heading toward St. Peter's Square or perhaps one of the city's many churches, but they just seemed to be walking in circles. When they passed the fountain depicting a sailing ship for the third time, she had to know.

"Where are we going?" she asked Father Anderson.

"To church," he replied briefly. It was an exceedingly evasive answer; there were many churches and chapels within the city walls.

The Hellsing director rolled her eyes, and redirected the question. "Signore Bianchi, where are we going?"

He looked uncomfortably at his commander, who stared back at him, as if daring him to answer. The unfortunate Iscariot paused for a moment while he decided who terrified him more: a religious zealot with a penchant for knives or a vampire of legend whose master had just been captured. "T-the Apostolic P-palace."

Anderson looked as though he wanted to smack the poor man. Integra smiled benevolently at the man. She could swear that she heard the priest muttering, "It's like they serve her, not me."

Unfortunately for the Hellsing director, Bianchi was correct. They were headed for the Apostolic Palace, the last place she wanted to be headed. It was home to Vatican City's military forces, both the public and covert forces. That meant the building was crawling with Iscariots and with the Swiss Guard, the pope's personal bodyguards, two of which stood guard at the building's entrance.

They smartly saluted as Bianchi held the door open for Integra and the party passed inside. The process was repeated several more times throughout the building. It made the Hellsing director a little... self conscious. The final group of soldiers stopped their little party outside the papal apartments.

"His Holiness is expecting you," the Swiss Guard Captain informed her. Integra gave a gentle nod of acknowledgement and moved to enter the room, but the Captain threw his arm in front of her, saying, "I'm sorry, signorina, but you'll have to pass our security screening first. Do you have any weapons?"

"Of course I have weapons. _His Holiness_," she spat, practically sneering, "demanded that I be pulled out of a war zone so that I might waste my time by having a spot of tea with him."

The captain kept his cool and replied smartly. "My apologies,_ signorina_, but I must ask you to surrender your arms."

"And if I refuse?" she inquired, debating if she should take her chances against .

Father Anderson, standing behind her, placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then I would have to act."

Integra frowned, clearly displeased, but reached down and unhooked her sword from her belt. She handed it to the military man, glaring all the while. The small smirk on his face felt like a kick in the stomach as Integra watched him close his gloved hands around the weapons scabbard. He placed it on the table next to him, and then stuck his hand out once more, gesturing impatiently for the rest of her weapons.

Integra raised an eyebrow, playing innocent. The sweet look on her face seemed to imply that she didn't have any more weapons, but it didn't work in the least. The guard twitched his fingers impatiently. After a moment of awkward staring, Integra caved. She begrudgingly reached into her coat pocket and forked over her pistol, slamming it on the table. The captain didn't drop his hand; he was asking for more weapons. How well armed did he think she was? Once again, the Hellsing director reached into her coat, this time yanking a tiny dagger from its sheath and placing it in the captain's greedy fingers.

The Swiss seemed to be satisfied with the number of weapons he had taken from her, and knocked gently on the door. "_Signore_? S_ignorina_ Hellsing is here to see you," he announced loudly.

The door opened swiftly, a graceful butler held it open, ushering the Hellsing heiress inside. Father Anderson made to follow, but the guard captain blocked him, saying, "It is a private meeting, _padre_."

"A fool's lips walk into a fight, and his mouth invites a beating. Proverbs 18:6," Anderson seethed. "You are going to leave the leader of a heathenous organization alone with his Holiness?"

"Those were my instruct-"

"Instructions?" Anderson shouted. "Thus says the Lord..."

The sounds of the zealous priest's quoting faded as Integra followed the butler farther into the papal apartments. She found the holy man's quarters to be surprisingly bare. Though she realized that poverty was among his clerical vows, a part of her had expected him to be above them. The only decorations seemed to be pious, handmade accents and a few paintings of biblical scenes. The butler stopped outside of one last door, and informed his guest that, "He is waiting inside."

As the door swung open, Integra's eyes widened with surprise. The decor in this one room was in stark contrast to the rest of the apartment. Expensive artwork, silver cutlery, and fine china took the place of bare walls and humble furnishings. Most surprising was a lavishly decorated table with all the makings of tea for two. She remembered her earlier facetious comment to the guard and realized the irony of the situation. Sure enough, none other than Enrico Maxwell sat in the papal sitting room, his usual arrogant, insufferable, intolerable, no-good - Integra took a deep breath and calmed herself. She did not enjoy being deceived, and this was no exception, but that was no excuse to let the bastard win.

"Miss Hellsing! How nice of you to join me," he called, pouring some of the hot tea for her.

"Maxwell," Integra replied sweetly, entering the room, determined to kill with kindness. "It has been far too long."

He rose and pulled out the other chair for her, bowing ever so slightly, the perfect gentleman. The Hellsing director followed suit, sitting daintily on the velvet cushion and allowing herself to be pushed in. The Archbishop produced a plate of scones.

"Golden raisin," he declared. "Would you like one, my dear?"

"Oh no," Integra declined. "I ate on the way here." She hadn't. The truth was that she didn't trust the clergyman in the slightest. She wouldn't put it past him to poison her. Unfortunately, her brilliant plan died as her stomach let out an unhappy rumble.

"No need to be modest. There are plenty to go around," Maxwell said benevolently, grasping a scone with a delicate pair of metal tongs and adding it to her plate. "I insist."

"Thank you," the Hellsing director replied as she broke off a morsel and raised it to her lips. A discreet sniff didn't reveal any suspicious odors, so she had no choice but to taste it. It was delicious. She hadn't been able to properly eat during her breakneck sprint through London, nor during her flight out of the city and into Italy. The sweet buttery flaky scone was impossible to resist. She wolfed down the rest with impeccable manners and liberal amounts of creme fraiche.

As she munched on the delectable pastry, Maxwell continued their verbal sparring. "You look absolutely exhausted, my dear!" he remarked. "I am both surprised and delighted that you came anyway."

Integra swallowed a bite and dabbed the corners of her mouth on a delicate silk napkin. "Wars tend to exhaust both body and soul, Archbishop, and frankly I wasn't aware that I had a choice in the matter of my attendance."

"My apologies! I never meant to pressure you," the clergyman apologized. Integra could tell from the small, subtle smirk on his face that he didn't mean it. She was certain that he would have hogtied her and dragged her to the occasion. The questions was why.

The Hellsing director gave a toothy smile and said in a honeyed voice, "You have nothing to apologize for. I wouldn't have missed it for the world." In fact, she would rather be almost anywhere else in the world. She felt particularly worried about London, and wondered how her operatives were holding up without their commander. She was sure that Walter and Captain Bernadotte would offer up some wise strategies, and equally sure that Alucard would charge in and ignore both of them. Instead she smiled as though nothing were amiss.

"You are too kind, but we must get down to business, I'm afraid. Do you know why I called this little meeting, Miss Hellsing?"

Integra shook her head. It was just one of the many questions which had been swimming through her head since she had boarded the Iscariot helicopter. What did the Pope want with... wait. Did Maxwell say that he called the meeting?

"I was told that the Pope requested my presence," she replied honestly.

"It was merely a piece of paper with his seal on it," the Archbishop said with a twinkle in his eye. "It is truly amazing what you can convince someone to do with his authority. I thought Father Anderson would have questioned -"

"So Alexander wasn't aware?" Integra mused. "I see that I was right to respect him." The corners of her lips twitched upward at the momentary fury on the clergyman's face. Her subtle implication that he wasn't worthy of respect had stung, but he quickly regained his composure.

The Hellsing director awarded herself a point in their passive-aggressive battle.

"No, the loyal hound thought he was acting on His Holiness's orders. But to return to my earlier question, my dear, I asked you here today for a very important reason."

"Oh?" Integra took a sip of her tea, trying not to look terribly interested. She knew it would get under the religious man's skin, and it did.

"You are here to act as bait."

The cocky smirk faded from Integra's lips. Bait? Bait for what?

"Bait for your pet vampire," Maxwell continued in answer to her unspoken question.

It all made sense. The conniving Archbishop wanted to destroy Alucard; that was no secret. It was an impossible feat, but in Vatican City, the seat of the church's power, that impossibility was not so certain. The city's religious significance would certainly weaken his vampiric abilities, and the garrison here with blessed weapons and holy orders would have a distinct advantage.

Integra bit her lip; she had no doubt that Alucard would take the bait. She had unwavering faith that he would come find her the moment he escaped from his ship that had served as his prison since Rip van Winkle's attack. She knew that he would rush here, into an obvious trap, the very moment he learned of her kidnapping.

It was certain, inexorable. Alucard was coming to the Vatican.

* * *

Seras kept her eyes firmly shut as she regained consciousness. She simply wanted to sleep, to lay there and not worry about where she was. She could be home, waking up in the middle of a battle for her home, or she could still be trapped in the past. Frankly, the blonde vampire didn't know which was more terrifying.

With a heavy sigh, Seras stuck out her hand for a tactile exploration of her surroundings. Cold paving stones... check. She opened her eyes groggily and peered through a sea of lashes. Dark open room, church pews... check. Yep, she was still in her past.

"_Mignonette?_" a surprised voice mumbled. Smart-mouthed French mercenary? ... Check. That made no sense. Pip wasn't supposed to be here. She hadn't even met Alucard yet, never mind Sir Integra or any of the Hellsing employees. And she certainly hadn't met Pip yet, but here he was.

"_Mon dieu!_" the Frenchman murmured. "Where are we?"

The draculina rolled over, and sure enough, she was met with a pair of inquisitive grey eyes and a swath of light brown hair.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Pip asked hesitantly, one eyebrow raised.

Seras's mind raced. Pip was dead in the present, and had never met her here in the past. How was he here? She raised a skeptical hand to his face and gingerly touched it. It was warm and weather-beaten, and undoubtedly alive. Then again, Eddie had seemed so alive too, and Simon... and the priest. That made sense; Pip was just another illusion, a creation of her own mind. The draculina smiled kindly at him. She would be glad to have him around, delusion or not.

"This is the night I met Alucard," she said softly.

"What on Earth do you mean?" the mercenary demanded.

"Just that." Her blue eyes were grim.

"And how are we getting out of here?" he asked.

She shrugged. It was something she had been wondering as well.

"Who's the bloke?" asked a loud voice. Seras's eyes snapped toward the speaker: Eddie. He was alive again?! No... no... she had just watched him die - again! Her hand flew to her forehead as the room began to spin. Her breakfast threatened to return, and tears filled her eyes.

"Captain Bernadotte," the mercenary introduced. "And you are...?"

"Eddie Hall, D-11," he replied suspiciously, then turned to Seras and whispered, "Captain of what?"

"Pip, Eddie. Eddie, Pip," she said, gesturing to each of them in turn. "Eddie is my mentor at D-11 and Pip is the Captain of the Wild Geese, a combat-seasoned band of French mercenaries."

Eddie groaned. "They hired mercenaries for this? Don't they know we can handle it?"

"Apparently not," Pip snapped.

The D-11 officer rolled his eyes in the Frenchman's direction, then turned to Seras, showing the other man his back. "Hey Kitten, you seen Simon?"

The blonde woman paused for a moment. If Pip was here and talking to Eddie, things were clearly not going to go as they were supposed to. A faint smile twitched at the corners of her mouth; she could change the past. Seras nodded at Eddie, answering in the affirmative. "He's outside, but you don't want to go out there."

"Why?" snorted Eddie, as if he thought it was a preposterous idea.

The draculina sighed heavily. "Simon is dead."

Before Eddie had time to gape at the astounding revelation, they heard the chilling groan of the ghouls. "Wha-" Eddie began to stammer, but Seras interrupted him.

"Simon is one of those things. They're vampire-controlled undead, called ghouls. One bite, and you'll end up just like them."

The D-11 officer looked at her skeptically. "Vampires?"

"Vampires," she confirmed.

Eddie laughed loudly. "That's a terrible joke, Kitten. Now if you'll excuse me," he spat, "I'll be saving my partner." The police officer gave Seras one last furious look before turning and rushing toward the door, but before he could get there, he ran into Pip.

"The lady doesn't want you to go," he said, barring Eddie's passage.

"Please believe me, Eddie," the blonde begged, catching up. "I'm right, and I can prove it."

"Really?" the officer scoffed. He crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned back as if to say, 'Prove it!'

The draculina took her friend's hand and guided him to the window, pointing out a figure rolling on the grass in the distance. "That's Simon," she explained sadly. The creature formerly known as Simon was pulling himself along the ground, inching forward by the sheer power of his arms, moving in a way that was markedly inhuman. His skin had the telltale coloration of a ghoul, and they could see his jaw moving in conjunction with the chilling moans ringing across the wet grass.

"He's moving, Kitten!" said Eddie, making another break for the door. "He needs our help."

Pip, again, blocked the way.

"We can't help him," she explained patiently. "He was bitten by a ghoul, and will soon become one of them. There's no cure. I'm sorry."

"We can't just leave him!" Eddie protested, helplessly staring at his former partner.

Seras gently placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "If we go out there, we'll die too."

Eddie's head snapped left and right as he searched the room. Seras and Pip's hands both migrated toward their guns as they gauged the D-11 officer's actions. The blonde unhooked the leather strap keeping the gun on her waistband, and turned off the safety for good measure. Eddie, meanwhile, had found what he was looking for: a wooden bench. He furiously kicked it, letting out a guttural yell full of pain and helplessness. His boot connected with the cedar once again, cracking the thick slab of lumber. A third kick widened the crack and sent Eddie hopping away, clutching at his toe. He fell backwards, hissing loudly.

"I broke my fucking toe," he swore. He received no response; the others were occupied. They stared wide eyed at a man in clerical garb: the Cheddar priest. He stood at the back of the church, grinning sadistically and licking his lips.

Seras gulped. Here she was, once more a helpless human staring down an absurdly powerful vampire. Only this time, Alucard wasn't coming to save her.

* * *

"Come back alive, at any cost." Those were his orders. He would come back, but alive... well it depended on the definition.

When Hans Gunsche, the werewolf and Millennium captain, had tracked him down, he knew it was time to part from his mistress. He could feel himself tearing up as he wrapped the canine messenger in his wires and waited for Integra's black sedan to round the corner. It was that moment that Walter the loyal butler had died and Walter the coward, the traitor, had been born. He hated himself for turning his back on Hellsing, on the family and the organization that had been his home for fifty-five years, but his mind was made up.

So here he was, in a floating laboratory on a war zeppelin, waiting for his treachery to pay off. The elderly man traced the crow's feet that had formed around the corners of his eyes, the creases from the plastic smile he had been wearing since the day he betrayed his master. He was nearly seventy, and the time-carved lines in his face showed it. His body creaked and groaned as he tried to go about his daily functions. Actions that were once simple were now agonizing and chancy endeavours, and each step brought him closer to the gates of hell. He didn't know what lay beyond, but he was certain that he didn't want to find out.

That was where Millennium came in. They promised him that he would never know the answer, never see death. They promised that he would get his body back, that he could once again be the Angel of Death. They promised him that he would join the night as an immortal vampire.

"_Herr_ Dorneaz," the Doctor greeted as he entered the room. "It is so good to see you."

Walter couldn't say the same. Avondale Napyeer was many things: a brilliant scientist of physiology and technology, a genius inventor, and excellent saucier. But of most of all, Dr. Napyeer was most certainly insane. He was the kind of man who thought that ripping apart an aging Nazi commander's body and stuffing it with metal was an excellent idea, and that bit himself until he bled whenever things became too tense for his liking. He was a person who exhumed bodies and used them to 'advance humanity' or so he claimed. He was the kind of man who preyed on an aging butler's fear of death and used the promise of immortality as an excuse to experiment on his body. Walter couldn't help hate the man, and yet be indebted to him.

"Dr. Napyeer," Walter returned, trying to keep the disgust from his voice.

"The day has come at long last, _meine Laborratte_. It is time for us to reap the fruit of our sweet collaboration." His six-lensed glasses magnified his eyes, making the deplorable excitement in his blue irises all that much more obvious.

"I trust that you can deliver?" the elderly man asked skeptically.

"SHE is with us," he whispered reverently. "So perfect and horrible. After all these years, I still cannot believe SHE exists." The Doctor practically skipped across the room and pulled back a set of red curtains. What Walter saw before him was just as Dr. Napyeer had described: perfect and horrible. 'SHE' was barely recognizable as human, a contorted corpse held in place by countless chains and straps. Bits of mummified flesh were visible under the stained wrappings, and around the manacles where the metal had driven into the skin.

"Look upon your saviour, _Knecht_!" the Doctor cackled. "Look on her and prepare yourself."

"That thing is positively repulsive," Walter declared. His disgust and recognition were both clear. Though he had never seen Dr. Napyeer's 'prize' before, he had heard enough to recognize her, even in a mummified state. SHE was Mina Harker, another vampire of Alucard's making, and one who had escaped his control when van Helsing placed his curse upon the No-Life King. His ancient blood had once flowed through her veins. Walter sighed as Millennium's actions from fifty years ago all began to make sense.

The former Angel of Death stared coldly at the Doctor. "I believe we're done here," he spat, and turned on his heel to leave.

"No no!" the Doctor protested. "You don't understand!"

Walter paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Oh, don't I? You, Doctor," he sneered, shoving as much contempt as possible into the word, "have been making nothing but pale imitations of Alucard. You've been making flawed, unstable vampire knock-offs."

"Pale imitations?!" Dr. Napyeer gasped, insulted. "My creations are the future of humanity! They are not perfect yet, but they will be."

Walter scoffed. "And I suppose that you have some brilliant plan to stabilize me?"

"Of course, _meine Laborratte_," the Doctor said with a ghastly smile. "I'll need some additional... materials... but you can get them after the transformation."

He raised an eyebrow as his eyes widened with interest. "And what would you need?" he inquired cautiously.

"Nothing much," the six-eyed man said in a cunning attempt to avoid the question. He reconsidered when he found himself against the wall, the former butler's wires cutting into his throat.

"Enough games, Doctor. What will it take for me to buy my immortality?"

"I need Alucard's blood."

* * *

**Pip's Guide to French... and Italian and German**

Gratzie: Thank you (It)

Signore/Signora/Signorina: Mr./Mrs./Miss (It)

Padre: father (It)

Mon dieu: My God! (Fr)

Herr: Mr. (Gr)

meine Laboratte: my lab rat (Gr)

Knecht: servant (Gr)

*****Thank you to Kabub for the German corrections and to Kabub's French-speaking friend for checking my French. I appreciate the help! *****

**P.S. Mysterious French Language Ninja: PM me your name and I'll be happy to credit you! ****Otherwise you shall remain Mysterious French Language Ninja, or MFLN for short. Thanks again!**


	4. Bleeding Blood

**A few thank yous are in order before we get this thing going:**

**As always, thanks to annavance92 for her ideas/beta reading/whatever-she-does-but-it-works. You rock. **

**Also thanks to Kabub for the assistance with my German, as well as Kabub's French-speaking friend, whom I have dubbed the ****Mysterious French Language Ninja. (Please let me know if you have a real name so I can thank you properly) Anyway, thank you.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Bleeding Blood**

The revelation that Maxwell was planning on luring Alucard to the Vatican was unnerving; it wouldn't be pretty. Alucard would find that the Holy City would dampen his powers and that the blessed weapons had the potential to grievously wound him, but the Archbishop had no idea what he was messing with. The man had heard rumors of Alucard's strength, seen the aftermath of the vampire's battles, but no one truly knew Alucard until they saw his fangs bared. Between the No-Life King's unbridled hatred of the Catholic church and Enrico Maxwell's determination, the Hellsing director could already see the devastation. Vatican City would not be the same after this conflict.

Something was off, wrong. Maxwell was cunning; he treated life like a game of chess, always trying to win. He wouldn't invite Alucard into his stronghold without some kind of... insurance.

"So what is it?" she asked at last, trying her best to sound unshaken. "If you've invited Alucard here, you must be pretty sure that you're going to win."

Sure enough, the Archbishop grinned. "Ah my dear. You know me too well." He changed gears then, asking, "Are you done with your tea?"

A few more sips remained in the cup, and a half-eaten scone rested on the edge of her saucer, but in light of Maxwell's latest revelation, she didn't quite feel up to finishing them. "I believe so," she replied.

"Then it is time to show you to your room," Maxwell said, standing at once.

Integra frowned. "Is that really necessary? You've been such a kind host already."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he laughed. "Come along."

The Hellsing director knew an order when she heard one; it was clear that her host, or jailor rather, was not going to budge. She stood, taking time to fold her napkin and push in her chair. He said 'come along,' not 'hurry' after all. She carefully placed every step, lagging behind the impatient archbishop as he led her out of the papal suite, past the Swiss Guard, down the stairs, and up to a gorgeous tapestry.

"Saint George fighting the dragon," Enrico Maxwell explained. "So fitting."

"Fitting?" Integra asked. How did a dragon have anything to do with what was going on here?

"Quite," he smirked, lifting the corner of the tapestry to reveal a door hidden behind it. "This way, please."

There it was, his fatal error. Maxwell was arrogant, egotistical, and he had a master plan. Integra was sure that he was just dying to share. "So that's it?" she demanded. "You're just going to tease me. Tell me what it is."

"I don't take chances, missie. I'll save my little secret for later," he replied.

Integra bit her lip, and commenced with the flattery. "It's not much of a risk if I'm locked up, now is it? It'll be our little secret."

They stopped outside a door. It was some kind of metal, titanium if she had to guess. The viewing

Not the least bit inviting. The silver-haired man rummaged around in his pockets, muttering angrily. At last, he produced a shiny key which fit in the lock before them. A turn and a click, and Integra found herself being ushered inside. It was a tiny room, albeit a cozy one. It had a twin bed in the corner, piled high with aging quilts, and a plain wooden nightstand beside it. On the nightstand sat a leather-bound Bible and a lamp, which gave the whole room a soft yellow glow. There was even a door to a modern bathroom next to the cedar chair in the corner.

"Miss Hellsing," the archbishop called from the doorway.

She looked at him over her shoulder.

"The Horn of Gabriel," he whispered. "Our little secret, right?"

* * *

The sound of three guns cocking filled the room. The vampire seemed to find it amusing. He smirked and crossed his arms over his chest, as if saying, 'Shoot me! I dare you.' Seras, Pip, and Eddie accepted his challenge, sending eighteen bullets soaring through the air, and thudding into the vampire's soft flesh. They peeled the skin from the former priest's face, pierced his skull, and sailed through his stomach, but for some reason, they only served to amuse the newest member of the undead.

He slowly, menacingly walked up to the prone Division Eleven officer. Eddie tried his best to crawl away, his fingers clutching the cobblestones, dragging him away from his doom. The metallic sound of shell casings against the floor echoed off the eaves as Pip reloaded his Colt Single-Action and brought it back to bear on the advancing threat. It was Pip's turn to scramble to safety as the Cheddar Priest rounded on him. He sprinted away with the speed of a frightened animal, the vampire hot on his heels.

The russet-haired mercenary made it to the door and yanked it open, and promptly closed it. Seras didn't even have to look to know what he'd seen: the endless haunting moans, the sea of violet stares, the lifeless flesh. The insatiable ghoul army outside had swollen to include every last man, woman, and child in Cheddar, from the housewives to the officers sent to save them.

The mercenary had taken one look at the developing situation and decided he was better off with one homicidal vampire than a growing army of the undead. Unfortunately for the Frenchman, the thud of the closing door had alerted said army to his presence. It was a matter of moments before the gentle rattling wail of the horde crescendoed to a chorus of starving moans, and the lumbering masses began to claw at the stained glass.

The priest continued to advance on the cornered soldier, licking his fangs in a menacing fashion. Pip, however, scanned the room. His eyes locked with Seras's blue ones, and in a moment of brilliant communication, he understood her plan. She vanished from the priest's line of sight, taking great care to draw no attention to herself.

Pip gave a nonchalant shrug, then looked the vampire straight in his eyes and he reached into his pocket. The priest's brows furrowed, as if he was wondering what kind of weapon the Frenchman was about to produce. Instead, the mercenary produced two things: a cigarette and a lighter. "At least let me have one last smoke," the Captain requested.

The priest had his eyes firmly focused on Pip, which is why he never saw the blonde girl coming. Seras launched herself at the Cheddar Priest, going straight for the eyes. She ran up behind the priest, tossed her arms over his shoulders, and dug her fingers into his eye sockets. The undead man reeled in shock. Unused to the added weight of the nineteen-year-old clinging to his back, the former priest stumbled, sending them both careening into the wall.

Seras found herself slammed back-first into the cold stone, the priest's body and immense strength holding her there. She found herself wishing for her vampiric powers as they clashed: her vying for freedom, and him trying to choke her unconscious. Her hands flew to her throat, where his long fingers wrapped around her trachea. She tried desperately to wedge her fingers between her skin and his, to pry his iron grip off of her. The lights began to dance at the edge of her vision, and each struggle became weaker.

Eddie did his very best to rescue her, brandishing the Holy Bible as a weapon. The thick manuscript connected with the vampire's skull, causing the undead man to spin around and deal with his new foe. Seras collapsed to the floor as the vampire dropped her to deal with the D-11 officer, coughing violently as the air rushed back into her lungs. The humans could see where the word of God had contacted the priest; his skin was bright red, burning where the text had touched him.

Pip joined in the melee as well, abandoning his Colt and launching himself at the vampire. The Frenchman's collarbone connected with the priest's shins, causing the former clergyman's world to stand on its head. After one unstable wobble, the vampire collapsed on top of Pip. The mercenary winced as the vampire's solid frame pinned his own to the ground. Eddie and Seras acted fast to take advantage of Pip's sacrifice. Eddie shoved his knee into the small of the priest's back and continued to wail on him with the Bible. Seras sprinted in the opposite direction, heading for the choir loft where she could get a clear view of the conflict, both their indoor struggle and the one brewing just outside.

From her new vantage point, Seras could see the shadows growing through the stained glass. Red, green, orange, blue. The ghouls clawed at the vibrant hues, trying to find a way inside. The blonde recalled the dossier she'd read over Simon's shoulder as they'd driven into town a few hours ago - no, months ago. It said that pieces of Cheddar had been built in the sixteenth century, and that remarkably, they had stood largely untouched for hundreds of years. Never had she felt so grateful for the strength of medieval architecture.

A shriek from Eddie brought Seras crashing back to the moment. From the looks of things, the priest had wrapped his hand around the police officer's ankle and brought him crashing to the floor. The woman watched in horror as the vampire continued to squeeze Eddie's limb, shuddering as the bones made a series of wet cracks. When the former man of God withdrew his blood-stained hand, she could see bits of bone protruding from the unfortunate officer's flesh.

"Bastard!" she shrieked, chucking the nearest item at the dogpile of combatants. Said item happened to be a missal, a written collection of the prayer said during the mass. The missile fell short, careening off the cobblestones and sliding to a halt just centimeters away from the vampire's feet. Seras felt a tiny bit of pride. The last time she'd visited Cheddar, she doubted the projectile would have made it halfway to her mark. She had gotten stronger. The thought took a moment to sink in, and then made the blonde girl fall to her knees.

Seras had assumed that she was physically the same as the last time she'd been in Cheddar. The slightly tanned skin, lack of fangs, and her D-11 uniform had confirmed it for her. How, then, was she stronger than she had been at this exact point in time? Was she underestimating herself? Seras doubted it. Sure, she didn't have the highest self-esteem, but her daily survival depended on a reasonable assessment of her skills. Over or underestimating her abilities would get her killed. No; she was most definitely stronger than the first time she had faced off against the Cheddar priest. But what did that mean? Was someone messing with her eyes?

Seras forced her eyes shut and held them closed for a moment. She blinked rapidly, distributing the moisture over her eyes. For a brief moment, she saw the truth. A sea of words surrounded her, encapsulated her. The mysterious text formed everything from the hymnals around her to the vaulted ceilings to the ground she stood on. Something was very wrong here. Perhaps her eyes were lying, but that strength came from somewhere. Seras wondered if her other vampiric abilities were still in tact.

With a pensive look, she placed a rubber sole on the railing of the choir loft, then hoisted her whole body onto the tiny piece of wood that barred her from falling into the benches below. Her vision swam as adrenaline began to course through her veins. Her human body would most certainly be hurt by this fall. If she was wrong, she would find herself in a pile of splintered wood with something broken or something sprained. If she was right, then a one-story fall would be a cinch for her vampiric body; she would be largely unscathed.

Seras closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped. For one heart-pounding second, she felt the air rush past her flailing limbs, heard the screaming wind. Then nothing. Her eyes shot open, wide with shock and confusion. The sight before her was not pretty. She stared up at her knees, which hung over a church pew. Her head was jammed into the cobblestones and her right arm achieved an angle which would make a contortionist jealous. Despite the horrifying condition of her body, she felt nothing.

Once again, Seras forced her eyes shut, and then peered out beneath half-opened lids. She caught a brief glimpse of her mustard-yellow Hellsing uniform this time. _What the hell_? She certainly hadn't changed clothes during her fall. How? What... Her mind went elsewhere for a moment as she rolled on her side and heaved violently, letting her stomach empty itself. The confusion was tangible, but she couldn't feel a thing. Even when she closed her eyes, the words danced and played at the edges of her vision.

A sharp pain in her side brought her back to her senses, along with a cold voice. "Get up, police girl. This is no time for a nap."

Alucard watched his apprentice with bated breath. The girl had been twitching and stirring since he had... removed the filthy illusionist from the picture. He grinned a little at the pleasant memory, but only on the surface. The spasms of pain flashing across the blonde's face were making him nervous, a rare experience for the No-Life King. Pip, lying beside, was in a similar worrisome state.

He tried very hard not to sigh in relief when he watched the girl's ice blue eyes flutter open. Her gaze darted about the room as she tried to remember where she was. Her hands danced over her limbs and torso, checking to make sure everything was intact. Then she looked at him.

"Master?" she asked hesitantly, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing, but at last she gave into the truth. "Master!"

Alucard found himself on the receiving end of a rib-cracking hug from the draculina. "Thank you!" his assailant said, her words muffled by his coat.

"What did I do?" he asked with a smile as he tousled her blonde locks.

"I dunno, but you helped." It was the type of painfully honest statement he had come to expect from Seras. She removed her face from his jacket with a puzzled look. "What happened while I was..." She didn't quite know how to finish her question, but Alucard understood nonetheless.

"I handled the situation," he replied simply, with a fiendish grin.

After a moment's pause, the girl detached herself from his waist and looked about the room. Her eyes fell on a bloody corpse in the corner. It was Zorin, clearly; the tattooed flesh told her that much, but it looked as though the illusionist had been run through the mill. Lacerations coated her body in sticky blood as it oozed from her wounds, ran down her limbs, and dripped slowly into the growing pool below. It was as if the dying woman had magnetic properties; Seras couldn't seem to look away. Her irises darkened, stuck between blue and red as her humanity and her hunger waged war.

He turned her face toward him with one gloved finger. "Police girl," he called, snapping her out of the trance. "When was the last time you ate?"

"I had a granola bar as we were putting up the barricades," she replied.

"What barri- ... never mind. When was the last time you ate? Like a vampire?"

"Oh." Seras chewed on her lip for a moment as she considered her answer. "When Integra gave me that drop of her blood."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. That was ages ago, and no doubt the police girl had been using her powers like mad today. That explained it: she was craving blood. The corners of his mouth twitched into a crooked smile. Perhaps today would be the day. He gestured toward the body and whispered, "I left her alive for you."

That did it. Seras looked at him with blood red eyes, then raced to where Zorin lay. Sure enough, the police girl looked entranced as she watched the body move, ever so slightly. The illusionist watch the police girl with panicked eyes and tried to reach her foe's forehead, though she only succeeded in lifting the her heavy arm a few centimeters from the ground, sending droplets of blood plummeting to the floor. Seras licked her fangs in anticipation of sinking them into the tattooed flesh, beads of spittle forming at the corners of her mouth. She knelt next to the illusionist's body, leaning in for a sniff.

"Use your ears police girl. Hear the blood pumping through the body," Alucard prompted. "Smell the tang of the iron."

The No-Life King watched as his apprentice closed her eyes and let her instincts take over. Her nostrils twitched as she inhaled the scent of her meal. Unfortunately for Alucard, his suggestions backfired. On the far side of the room, the unconscious Frenchmen let out an almost inaudible moan. The blonde's head shot up as her enhanced senses picked up the sound, a concerned look on her face. As her gaze moved toward where Pip lay, Alucard caught a glimpse of her eyes: ice blue. He fought the instinct to sigh, realizing that her feeding frenzy was no more.

The draculina rushed over to the fallen captain's side. Seras called out his name, "Pip? Pip?" She snatched his hand from where it had fallen, squeezing it tightly with her fingers. Perhaps it was the sound of her voice or the feel or her skin, or maybe it was simply time for him to wake up, but whatever the reason, Captain Bernadotte's eyes slowly opened.

"_Mignonette_," he murmured, smiling gently.

Seras's face lit up, and she seized the prone man in a vicious hug. "Pip! You're okay."

He groaned in pain. "Careful with my ribs. Bruised, I think." He gingerly opened his jacket and lifted the shirt beneath. His skin was mottled purple, blue, and red, a veritable rainbow of injuries. He hissed in pain at the sight, and Seras cringed empathetically.

"If my ribs are this bad, then I don't even want to look at my leg," Pip joked. Naturally, Seras looked, cringing once more.

"Oh my," she whispered. Even from his distant vantage point, Alucard could see the ragged end of a bone pressing against the skin, trying to escape. Closer to the ankle, other bone fragments had succeeded. Alucard smirked. He bet the Frenchie was really envious of the vampires in the room with him. Even Seras could regenerate a simple broken bone if she put everything in the proper place first. In any normal situation, the human would likely be out of commission for several weeks, but this was war.

"I'll be fine," he laughed weakly, looking around the room. "What about the others?"

Seras shook her head, but Alucard placed his hand on her shoulder. "Do you really give me so little credit?" he teased gently. Then he turned to Pip. "Two of your men are scavenging for supplies in kitchen. They were all I could save; the rest were dead long before I arrived."

Pip heaved a sigh of relief. "At least someone made it. What about -"

"The tattooed little insect over in the corner?" Alucard finished gesturing to the corner where Zorin was clinging to life.

"_Oui_..." the Frenchman concurred, craning his neck to see where his attacker lay. Sure enough, Zorin was still there, grievously injured in a pool of her own blood. "Shame," Pip hissed through the pulsing pain, "I wanted to give a few good hits for my men. Do I at least get to hear about her last moments?"

"Well I do love a good story," Alucard replied. "Make yourself comfortable. If I'm going to talk about my achievements, then I shall do so in great detail."

Pip shot the vampire a beleaguered look. There was no finding comfort on a hard floor with his collection of injuries. Apparently Seras was thinking along the same lines, for she sat down behind him and gently lifted his head into her lap.

"_Mignonette_," the captain chastised, "if you're going to let me use you as a pillow, at least let me lay on something softer than your knee."

Seras shot him an incredulous look; she knew exactly which 'pillows' he had in mind. "Pervert," she muttered under her breath. Then in a louder voice, she informed him that, "It's this or the floor."

"Are you quite finished?" Alucard hissed. The draculina and the captain had clearly forgotten about the No-Life King's presence from the way they jumped at his voice. "Good."

He cleared his throat and began the story with a smug smile. "I had barely left that accursed ship when I sensed your presence, police girl. I could feel the worm's attacks on your mind when I tried to contact you. That pale imitation of a vampire had pinned down the both of you when I arrived, trapping you in one of her illusions. I took out the rest of the insects while she was busy tormenting you. The fool didn't even notice my presence until it was too late."

Alucard chuckled softly, sending chills down his audiences' spines. The illusionist hadn't seen him coming. He smiled cruelly at the memory:

"_The security is awfully lax around here, wouldn't you agree?"_

_The gnat jumped six feet in the air as he whispered in her ear. The foolish insect had been far too busy spinning webs of lies in his apprentice's head to even notice his approach. She clutched her scythe and her movements took on a feral, instinctive jerk as she sized up her new foe and her sudden lack of henchmen. He glowered at her. As amusing as it was to toy with his prey, he didn't have the time or luxury._

"_Have you seen a blonde woman around here?" he asked._

_The gnat stared incredulously at him; Seras lay on the floor a mere meter from his foot. _

"_Not this one," he sighed, waving his hand dismissively. "The Hellsing director! Glasses, scowl, probably smoking an expensive cigar... temper like a caged animal?"_

_Judging from the confused look on Zorin's face, she hadn't. Dammit! Where had Integra gotten to? Unfortunately for the worm, that meant she was no longer useful to him. "I'm sorry. That was the wrong answer."_

"That's it?" Pip groaned. "That _putain_ snapped me like a matchstick and you make killing her sound about as easy as pissing the bed."

Alucard grinned. Funny he had told the little flea something similar, and the memory of the shock and terror on her face amused him to no end.

"_Come now, pest! Regenerate!" he demanded, eyes wide with excitement. _

_The tattooed insect pressed her hand to her stomach, but that did nothing to stop the bleeding. She looked at her foe with the utmost disgust as she continued to ooze arterial blood from the fist-shaped hole in her abdomen._

"_It's easier than pissing the bed!" he insisted. "See?"_

_He turned his deadly weapons on himself, shooting his chest to smithereens, reaching through his shredded chest with an amused expression to be sure that he'd done the job. Sure enough his hand connected with the wall behind him, unhindered by his body. Before Zorin's eyes, the fragmented ribs were mended by the shadows, calcifying and reforming. Inside, the heart reformed ventricle by ventricle until it was wrapped in muscle as the tendons and sinew knitted together, closing the hole. The artificial vampire watched aghast as the skin on Alucard's stomach stretched over the exposed muscle and closed together, then as the shadows did the same with his clothes._

"I would recommend reserving your judgement," Alucard said in reply to the Frenchman's question. "I didn't kill her." No, she had done it to herself.

"_I'll get you for that!" Zorin hissed through the pain. She abandoned her scythe, dropping the heavy curved blade to the floor with a loud clang. Instead of charging for him, she raised her right arm, showing the purple eye on her palm. He watched as the lids parted, revealing a piercing purple eye, the eye of a ghoul. With a cocky smirk, the bleeding vampiress placed her hand to the wall. Words flowed from it in a Hellish stream, up the walls, down the wooden panels, across the ceiling and along the floor, all swarming toward one specific point: him. _

_A few words might sway a human like the Frenchman or a newborn vampire like the police girl, but the worthless insect would find herself hard-pressed to come up with words to sway the No-Life King. But she was going to try, wasn't she? He allowed the words to race up his body, let them peer into his mind. She was welcome to see anything she wanted to see; he'd come to terms with his past. It couldn't hurt him anymore._

_His childhood flashed before his mind's eye, his sale to the Ottomans, his violation at their hands, his silver cross... Their bloody deaths at his hands, the bloody grin on his face... He heard God's own voice, proclaiming his true calling. He would crush the Ottomans. Then... Matthew, God's blade or so the braggart claimed, the traitorous bastard. His capture, his abandonment. God did this! God left him in his time of need! Fuck God! Wrath, resentment, hatred brewing. Betrayal and capture, once more. A moment of weakness, a sip of the blood. Pain, oh unbelievable pain. The guillotine falling, his head rolling down the steps. Laughter._

_The illusion lifted as the insect stared at him with horrified eyes. The things he had done as Vlad were enough to make lesser men wretch, but he stood by them. He smiled and advanced; the little bug was caught in his web. _

"_An adorable parlor trick, really," he scoffed. "Let me show you how it is done." He placed his palm to her head, and she screamed as if being burned alive. Her nails dug into her arms as she relieved her past. Poor maggot; it wasn't a happy one. She bit her fingers until they were bloody, clawed at her skin until it gave birth to streams of red. He released her, and left her to her own devices. If she wasn't strong enough to conquer her past, then she wasn't strong enough to survive. Those who take immortality must fight to earn it. _

Pip spared a quick, inquisitive glance toward the body in the corner, raising his eyebrows when he found it unmoving.

"Just barely alive," Seras explained. "Would you like the honors?"

"_Mignonette_, you almost killed yourself keeping me alive. They're yours if you wish," the magnanimous captain conceded.

"I think _they_ would want you to," the blonde explained solemnly. As she spoke, she gestured across the floor her hand passing over the corpses of the fallen. The men once known as Wild Geese lay strewn across the hardwood, picked apart by Zorin's remaining vampires or resting where they were struck down, immobile amongst the shredded bodies of their killers. "You owe them that."

Pip nodded solemnly. These men had died because he had signed them up with a secretive organization fighting enemies far beyond their mortal strength. They had died because he commanded them to save a city that they hardly knew. These brave soldiers had died because he forced them into a corner and convinced them to hold it against inhuman foes. They died because he had cajoled them and pleaded with them not to abandon their posts, not to save themselves. They died because he asked them to. Killing their killer was the least he could do.

Seras returned his firearm, a little bloodstained but in working condition. He holstered it in his waistband, then placed his hand in the draculina's, allowing him to be helped off the ground. It was a delicate process, but Seras guided the injured man to his hapless enemy. Slowly, deliberately, he drew his gun and aimed it at Zorin's barely conscious form. He thanked God for his twisted cruelty as the illusionist cracked opened her eyes and stared down the barrel of his loaded pistol. Her life ended in a blaze of gunpowder.

"_A votre sante._"

**Pip's Guide to French:**

Putain: slut

A votre sante: to your health


End file.
